Ayane took half a step backward. Piercy said, “You are mistaken, sir. This is Princess Ayane of Santerre. We are her traveling companions.”
“Of course that’s what you’d believe,” the ascetic said. “The foretelling says ‘The prophet does not know his calling, nor does she declare her name.’”
“I believe I have just told you her name,” Piercy said. The expression on the man’s face was unnerving. He looked like someone on the brink of an ecstatic fit. “She is no prophet.”
“She bears Cath’s black visage. There is no mistaking it.”
“My face is hardly black,” Ayane said. There was an edge to her voice Piercy knew meant she was working up to being angry, which usually led to violence.
“It is a small difference. You will come with me,” he said to Ayane, extending his hand. She crossed her arms across her chest and scowled at him.
“I suppose it’s too late to pretend I don’t speak Dalanese,” she said in Santerran.
“Well past time. What should we do?”
The man closed his eyes and pressed his palms together, lifting them toward the ceiling. “O God,” he said in a loud voice the stones absorbed, “I praise you for allowing me to be the first to acknowledge your prophet! Bless me with your wisdom!”
“This is absurd,” Ayane said. In Dalanese, she said, “I truly am not your prophet. You will blaspheme if you worship me.”
“Oh, no, my prophet,” the man said, sounding dismayed. “You are Cath’s voice. It would be like worshiping the God’s finger and completely irreverent.” He took hold of Ayane’s wrist. “We must hear our doom.”
Ayane broke his grip effortlessly and stepped out of his reach. “Do not lay hands on me,” she told him. To Piercy, she said in Santerran, “I see the beginnings of a new plan.”
“You cannot possibly think pretending to be a prophet of Cath is a good idea. We are not entirely certain he will look with favor on our taking the necklace. Usurping his authority, whatever it is these people expect from his prophet, could result in the kind of attention the Gods reserve for the vilest sinners and those who wear stripes with paisley.”
“I could very well be the actual prophet. We certainly carry a message of doom, even though Mr. Hodestis insists we can’t tell them. Maybe this is our opportunity to save the monastery.”
“No, don’t start prophesying now!” the ascetic exclaimed. “You must wait until everyone can hear it. Until the ritual.”
“On second thought, I don’t like the sound of ‘ritual,’” Ayane said.
“No, you are correct, this is our best chance,” Piercy said. “The entire monastery will no doubt want to witness your prophecy. I will be able to move freely and rapidly. I think you should accept your destiny, o prophet.”
“You aren’t as funny as you think you are,” Ayane said. “Make something up to explain why I’ve changed my mind. And let’s do this quickly.”
“I see we cannot conceal our purpose from God’s servant,” Piercy said to the ascetic. “The prophet has come to speak your doom. She wishes to see the prime immediately.”
“I knew it could not be false,” the ascetic said. “I apologize for touching you, o prophet, that was wrong of me. Please, come with me.”
Piercy followed Ayane out the door only to be brought up short by the ascetic. “No one who is not a servant of Cath can witness the ritual,” he said. “Though we’re all very grateful you brought her to us.”
“I am her bodyguard,” Piercy said, drawing himself up to his full height so he wouldn’t feel quite so overshadowed by the enormous man, “and it is my sworn duty to escort her to the doors of the sanctum. Of course I will not interfere in the ritual, but neither will you interfere with what the God has tasked me with.”
The man drew back. “All right,” he said, sounding cowed, and Piercy with some relief followed him and Ayane down the black corridor. Drafts carried the wet, bitter smell of old stone to Piercy’s nose, and he groped for a handkerchief before remembering he wasn’t carrying one. It was even colder within the monastery than it had been on the moors, and Piercy envied the ascetic his wide-sleeved woolen robe and shrouding hood.
Ayane drew her velvet cloak more closely about herself; she must miss Santerre, with its warm, wet climate and sunny coasts. When this was all over, he was going to insist on holiday leave for at least a few days. Maybe he could visit Santerre. Maybe Ayane will show you her country, he thought, and it was such an intriguing idea he almost missed the turn off the main hallway.
It was little more than a hole in the wall, and Piercy had to duck to go through it. The passage beyond was barely taller than the hole, and narrow enough that he could extend both arms and nearly brush the walls on either side with his fingertips. Sweet incense wafted through the corridor, overriding the bitter smell of the stone, and if he closed his eyes he could imagine himself in the grand cathedral in Rainoth. Though that cathedral had never been as cold as this place was.
The corridor, while no better lit than the main passage, was dimly blue rather than golden with firelight. After a few feet, Piercy passed a square opening set deep in the stones of the wall through which moonlight shone. He stopped to glance through it, then took a closer look in astonishment.
A forest glade spread out before him, stippled with shadows cast by the leaves. Beneath the trees stood several men and women dressed in close-fitting black shirts and full skirts that fell to their ankles, revealing their bare feet. They were all moving in some kind of dance, though no two were doing the same steps, and they were all dances Piercy was unfamiliar with. None of them acknowledged each other, none of them seemed aware of anything beyond their ritual movements. The only sound came from the wind swishing the leaves back and forth and, more distantly, the cry of a bird, long and mournful.
Piercy hurried to catch up to the others. “What is that, beyond the walls?” he said.
The ascetic looked back over his shoulder, but didn’t slow his pace. “That is the Garden of the Third Dream-Land,” he said. “Our re-creation of the Pleasant Fields. We pray for the souls of those who are still growing after death, that they’ll find their way onward.”
“They are dancing,” Ayane said, peering through the next window they passed.
“They’re performing a ritual resembling the actions of everyday life. Washing clothes, cooking food, riding a horse, things like that. The things the souls in the Pleasant Fields are caught in. We perform those actions for them so they can see they must grow beyond what’s comfortable. The Garden on the other side is less pleasant; it’s the Darklands, where souls suffer punishment for their misdeeds until they’ve fully made amends. You might not want to look.”
Piercy resolutely kept his eyes on the ascetic’s back, though he could just glimpse Ayane taking a long look through those windows. Typical, that she would do what she’d been warned against. “It makes one wonder where one’s soul will land, after death,” he said.
“You should live the best life you can, and let Cath make that decision,” the ascetic said. “No one should fear death. Unless you fall into the Maelstrom, there is always hope. Please, go ahead of me into the sanctum. I’ll fetch the prime.”
Piercy and Ayane moved forward as directed, out of the low-ceilinged passage and into a domed room that rose far above what Piercy remembered seeing from the outside. The black-surfaced path they stepped onto circled the room and crunched under their feet, though Piercy couldn’t see any grit or gravel. Beyond the path were circular pews of some dark wood, unpadded, bisected—or could you call it that when they were divided into five sections?—by more paths made of the same unexpectedly gritty stone. “Is this as you remember?” Piercy said in Santerran.
“Yes. I suppose it’s true all the sancta are built along the same model.” Ayane crossed the room to where one of the paths between the pews began and approached the altar that lay at its center.
“Are you certain you should do that?”
“The altar’s not sacred except during rituals. They consecrate and deconsecrate it every time. Besides, I’m the prophet. I doubt they’ll criticize me for wanting to be close to the God.”
Piercy ground his teeth and followed her. Ayane was a skilled fighter and extremely clever, but she also had no common sense and it was going to be the death of him someday. Possibly today. He ran his finger along the back of one of the pews; it felt warm and slick, like soap. He sniffed his fingers, but smelled only the faintly sour odor that reminded him he hadn’t been able to bathe in nearly a week. That was the first thing he intended to do after returning. Other than helping Hodestis return to his lady. He was increasingly convinced the little man didn’t understand how dangerous it could be to return overland to wherever it was he came from. Even in the present, there were bandits on the edges of Dalanine.
He came to stand next to Ayane, who despite her words hadn’t touched the shining black marble surface of the altar’s circular top. It was about ten feet across and was supported by a base of polished ebony Piercy guessed was pentagonal, though he didn’t want to walk around it, crouched over, to verify his guess.
High above, embedded in the ceiling, was a clear stone that gave off a bright white light, brighter than sand reflecting the noon sun on Midsummer day. It played across the marble altar, turning it mirrored, and Piercy looked at his reflection and hoped he didn’t actually look as unkempt as the mirror suggested.
“You’re the prophet,” a woman said, and they turned around to see a woman with very white hair and a deeply lined face approaching, her hood thrown well back on her shoulders. “Praise Cath. We have been waiting for his doom for nearly four years. We will perform the ritual immediately; who knows how much time we have?”
Ayane gave Piercy a wide-eyed look that clearly said I’m going to find a way to tell them. Piercy nodded. They could still make it seem the necklace was destroyed, because the monastery would be razed no matter what Ayane “revealed.” “I am Princess Ayane’s bodyguard,” he said to the prime, “and I am pleased to bring her to this monastery. Please excuse me now, as I should not intrude on the ritual.”
“Not at all,” the prime said. “You asked to take part in our worship, yes? Any follower of Cath is welcome.”
“But…I’m not that devoted a worshiper. I really don’t think—”
“Cath decides who’s worthy, young man. And I think you deserve a reward for having escorted the prophet here. Really, I insist.”
Now Ayane’s wide golden eyes said Think of something, idiot. “I thank you, my lady, for your invitation. I’m really very honored. I will make sure our companion needs nothing—he took sick along the road, and we are entirely grateful for your hospitality—and then I will return to participate in this most sacred ritual.”
“I’ll have Harn look in on him. You don’t have to worry.”
“Oh, my lady, thank you so much, but he’s my uncle and it’s my duty to watch over him as I have over the prophet. It shouldn’t take long, and you’ll have to gather all the ascetics, yes?” Men and women in hooded robes were filing into the room from several directions and taking their seats on the pews.
The prime glanced at Ayane, then said, “You’re right, it’s a duty you owe your uncle. I’ll make sure to save you a spot near the front.”
“Now that truly is too much,” Piercy said with a broad smile. “I’d feel so conspicuous. I will be more comfortable sitting at the back, and we wouldn’t want anyone distracted from the ritual by my obviously inappropriate attire, would we?”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that, but I’m impressed with your concern for the purity of the ritual,” the prime said. “You are exactly the sort of humble person Cath would entrust his prophet to. Hurry, because the ritual will begin soon. O prophet, will you come with me?”
Ayane nodded at Piercy and followed the prime along one of the gritty pathways. Piercy tried not to bolt back down the one they’d come in by. He had to press himself almost flat against the side of the passage to avoid the ascetics going toward the sanctum, none of whom were inclined to give way to someone not of their faith.
Once in the main hallway, he had a moment’s confusion over where he was, surrounded by the blank walls and the identical doors, and had to backtrack all the way to the entrance and count the doors going forward again until he found Hodestis’s room. The little man still slept, though he already looked better, less green around the lips. Piercy let him sleep and closed the door behind himself. Now he knew his location more certainly, it was time to explore.
He was now the only person in the outer passage, and the silence echoed off the stones. He found himself holding his breath because the sound of the air rushing in and out of his lungs was so loud he was sure someone would hear him and drag him off to witness the ritual. Whatever it was. He had no doubt Ayane could keep the ascetics occupied for more than the time he needed to find the necklace, even if some other unexpected thing happened. Unless they summon the God. They can’t do that, can they? It certainly won’t be human sacrifice; Cath dislikes it when people are sent to a premature death. He dismissed those thoughts impatiently. He was wasting the time Ayane was procuring for him.
He’d already observed that the doors on the—he’d have to call it the outside of the pentagon, that made sense—that those doors were identical, age-blackened oak with a deep grain, and evenly spaced. But there were other doors opposite them, at irregular intervals, most of them wider and all of them taller, as if the roof were higher at that side of the corridor.
Piercy walked a short distance down the hallway and tried the first door he came to. It opened easily, without even the creak he’d expected from this unsettling pile of black, mildewed stone. The room beyond was completely dark. Piercy went back for one of the little torches—it was so small it scorched the hairs on his hand from proximity to the flame—and peered inside. Lots of benches, lots of tables, and a couple of doors at the far end. Refectory. He shut the door and moved on.
More of those wide doors housed other necessities: bathing chambers, a couple of libraries filled with fat tomes and battered scroll cases, storage rooms packed with crates and bags of foodstuffs. He passed another of the little holes that opened on one of the pentagon’s inner spokes ultimately leading to the sanctum. The refectory had had doors on the far side that probably led to the kitchen, which had to be accessed from the sanctum side; suppose what he wanted lay farther inward?
He cursed silently and kept going, more speedily. He wouldn’t worry about that until he’d eliminated all the possibilities of these corridors.
Another hole, then some kind of giant closet filled with robes and hooded cowls. Perhaps he should borrow a set—that would make his roaming through the monastery easier. On the other hand, the God might think it was blasphemy, and the key point of this plan was not to anger Cath. He moved on. Another large room, this one storing gardening tools; it had another door on the opposite side. How did they get into the Garden spaces, anyway?
On a whim, he closed the door behind him and crossed to the other door. No noise came through it, probably because it was centuries-old oak, and it was locked. Odd that none of the others had been. He took out his lock picks and went to work, trying not to become frustrated at the delay. With his luck this would turn out to be another storage room.
The lock ground open, too slowly. Piercy stuffed the picks into his waistband just in case he needed them again quickly, then pulled the door open a crack. Still no noise, no chanting or singing or whatever it was Cath’s ascetics did in a ritual. He again had a momentary qualm about Ayane usurping the role of the actual prophet, but if the monastery was going to be overrun in less than twenty-four hours, the actual prophet, whoever she or he turned out to be, was going to be far too late to make any difference. Maybe we are the fulfillment of prophecy, he thought, then rolled his eyes at himself and opened the door wide enough for him to slip through.
This room was smaller than the others and oddly shaped. Hollowed-out niches just larger than man-sized gave the walls a bumpy appearance; they were perfectly smooth and made a strange contrast to the unfinished surfaces surrounding them. Disks of black marble were set into the floor beneath each one, like bases for statues that ought to go in the niches. Unlike everything else in this place, the spaces between them were asymmetrical, and there were eight of them. The only door was the one he’d come in by.
Piercy made a slow circuit of the room, looking for differences between the niches, but found nothing. He pursed his lips in thought. No other exits, no reason I can see for their existence. Something is missing. It looked so much like a Midwinter crèche that he absently began fitting figures to the spaces: the Lady, the Lord, the Fool…well, he was a fool about many things, but he didn’t think he was a fool about this. He stepped onto the marble circle where the Fool should stand—
—and found himself in a hot, barren desert, lit by the waning moon above. Piercy immediately turned around. Nothing. No black stone niche, no marble disk beneath his feet. Perspiration broke out on his forehead and under his arms, only some of it from the heat. Where was this desolation?